amaranthine
by lydia martins
Summary: AU: "I am beautiful," you try telling yourself in the mirror, like your Guidance Counsellor told you to, "I am skinny." But you aren't because the voices — FAT, UGLY, NO ONE WILL EVER WANT YOU — are calling you again. Warning: Triggers. — Rachel/Quinn, Santana
1. I: QUINN

notes– even though fabrevans and st. berry are 5ever my otps, i'm really starting to like faberry, and this one is a very belated gift for the flawless amy (_foxfaced by nightlock)_, hope you enjoy it!

disclaimer – uhm, i don't own _glee_, or _the notebook_.

warning – possible triggers as this fic contains self-harm, and mentions of an eating disorder (bulimia) and depression.

* * *

/  
**amaranthine  
**quinn/rachel

/

"_so it's not gonna be easy. it's going to be really hard; we're gonna have to work at this every day, but i want to do that because i want you. i want all of you, forever, every day. you and me... every day."_  
—- **the notebook**

/

Nothing is permanent in this universe, so what's the point in even trying? You could be the smartest, work and read all your life, but then you reach a certain age and even that loses its magic and your mind starts going and this that seemed so easy, aren't now.

But right here, right now, even knowing that in fifty, sixty, seventy years, it will be over, it doesn't make you want her even less. You press another kiss to her, as if trying to heal her with your lips, and whisper in her hair, "I love you."

The whispers are rising again, like they always do, FAT, UGLY, SHUT, WHORE, BITCH, but her lips silence, them, and so do her words. "I love you, too." Because this may be the closest thing to perfection there is in this whole world, and you'll take it, you'll take it — whether for one minute or for eternity.

"Always?" FAT, UGLY —

"Forever."

The voices stop.

/

Her name is Rachel and she has the stars in her eyes and the moon in her smile; she has cuts on her wrists and sadness on her tongue.

She's just like you — lost in this fucked up world, and you wish you could change it, for her at least.

But the thing is — you can't_, you can't_.

How can you try to help someone if you are more messed up than they are? How can you calm someone when you are even more hysterical than they are? You can't — but, oh, how you want to.

You want to love the bags out from under her brown eyes, and kiss each of the cuts to get better, because a person like her doesn't belong in a place like this with its white — _whitewhitewhite _— walls, over smiling staff, and people that are really fucked up, _people like you._

You don't like seeing her here, not at all, but there's nothing you can do.

"Welcome to Columbus Ohio Psychiatric Hospital, how may I help you?"

YOU CAN'T, you want to scream at them, YOU CAN'T HELP ME — LEAVE ME ALONE, but they don't — they never do. "I'm fine," you insist, the words, lies, falling from your lips easily. "I don't need any help. Really. It's not me, you see," and it's not — there is a rational explanation, "the voices — they tell me things, scary things. And I've got to make them stop, you see. Blame the voices."

They put you in a white room, by yourself, where smiling nurses come to visit you.

But the thing is — you weren't always like this.

There was a time that you were normal. "Normal," you try the words out on your tongue. It's foreign and weird and you say it again, "normal." Maybe if you say it enough, it'll become true.

"Normal."

It doesn't.

/

Inside this broken shell, there once was a happy girl — well, as happy as any teenage girl could be in these circumstances — with hair like a mountain sunset, and eyes like warm hazelnut. She was perfect, on the outside at least, but inside, inside was a broken girl. Her name is Quinn Fabray.

But what people don't know is that under the picture perfect smiles and porcelain expressions, you were crumbling like a day-old scone and I HAVE TO BE PERFECT, I DO and no one could know what was wrong with you, because you're Quinn Fabray, and you can't be imperfect, right?

"Quinnie, do you want pancakes?" Judy Fabray, your mother, asks.

"Okay," you say — you can't arouse suspicion, but the voices, those evil voices, the ones tearing you apart from the inside, whisper FAT, UGLY, SLUT, WHORE, BITCH — and the words swirl and swirl inside you until they are a part of you ("Lucy Caboosey!") and you can't, you can't, _you can't_ take it anymore, you have to make the words stop, you do.

It's hard, at first, throwing up in just the right way, but soon, like any art, it becomes part of you, and it's so easy to hide this from anyone and everyone, "Thanks, mom, for the breakfast," and you dash back to your room, right into your bathroom, two fingers already down your throat, so eager, so ready —

FAT, UGLY, SLUT, WHORE, BIT — but finally, the voices stop, for now, at least – until you eat again, and they restart, more menacing than the last time. "Eventually," you say, looking at yourself in the mirror — you didn't even get any puke on your new white dress, pro — "I'm going to have to blow my brains out, just to get away from these voices."

You flush the toilet.

/

"Hey, Fabray, lookin' good," Puckerman says, leering at you with that look that makes you want to kill yourself — or him, either one is fine. But everyone is smiling and nodding and GOD, IT FEELS GOOD because you're on top again, and these people, they'll be working for you in the future, when you're rich and successful and _skinny_, and —

FAT, UGLY, SLUT, WHORE, BITCH — the voices start up again, and you curse yourself for ever thinking that you could escape them. They'll always be with you, no matter where you go, and you try to ignore it, but they get louder and louder — FAT, UGLY, SLUT, WHORE, BITCH. FATUGLYSLUTWHOREBITCH, _FATUGLYSLUTWHOREBITCH _and it's taking over your mind, and you are ugly and fat and you can't think —

"Quinn?" the teacher glares at you, and you try to communicate, HELP ME, THE VOICES ARE BACK, but you can't, and she just stares at you reproachfully, like it's _your_ fault her class is so fucking boring. "The answer to question 40?"

FAT, UGLY — "Which one was question 40, again?" you ask, cheeks burning. Someone, probably Santana, laughs — SLUT, WHORE — "Oh, the one with the trains?" — BITCH — "37. Can I go to the bathroom?" The teacher glares at you reproachfully, but she can't say anything because you answered the question right, and she nods her head.

"I am beautiful," you try telling yourself in the mirror, like your Guidance Counsellor told you to, "I am skinny." But you aren't because the voices — FAT, UGLY, SLUT, WHORE, BITCH — are calling you again, and you stick your fingers down your throat even though you haven't eaten anything but the feeling after you've flushed the toilet, deleting all the evidence, is like a high for drug addicts.

You step out of the stall, and meet —

"Hey, Q," Santana says with a wicked gleam, "how are you?"

"I'm sick, okay?" the lies, excuses, tumble from your lips in a reflex, you're used to this, being questioned. "I think I have the flu. Must the cafeteria food, don't try it."

"Shut the fuck up, Fabray," Santana snaps, glaring at you. The look in her eyes is feral, lethal. "Listen — you're already as skinny as a fucking twig, so why don't you stop going all Mary-Kate Olsen on us, hmm?"

"You don't know anything, Santana!" you find yourself yelling at her. She steps back, shocked. You know, deep down, that she just wants to help you — but maybe you don't want to be helped. "Shut up! Not everyone is as skinny as Miss Perfect Body Lopez. I'm just sick, okay?" and you leave her there, staring at you, in the bathroom. The whispers are already starting again, FAT, UGLY —

"Quinn," says Sam, "I missed you this morning." You let him kiss your cheek, and wonder if he can see the ugliness that you see when you look in the mirror. "You look beautiful." HE'S LYING — the voices tell you. And how could he not be? You are fat, fat and ugly. "Want to go to lunch?" SLUT, WHORE, BITCH —

"Okay," you find yourself saying. "What's the special?"

Sam goes on, blabbing about something you don't care about, and the two of you step into the cafeteria, hand in hand. You like Sam, really, you do. He's kind and caring and comfortable. You kiss his cheek as the whispers grow — HE WILL NEVER WANT A FAT, UGLY, LUCY CABOOSEY, THE SECOND SANTANA SOMES ONTO HIM, YOU'RE DONE — but right now, you don't want to think about that.

You grasp his hand harder.

/

You don't usually speak during lunch.

You eat as the whispers grow, and let the group talk for you — they hardly notice. "What's wrong?" Sam asks, "why don't you talk at lunch anymore?" and Tina looks away from Artie, with the same question in her eyes, and Puck stops his story about something that you care nothing about, and Finn frowns, like he may actually care about you, and Santana doesn't meet your eye, and they _do_ care.

"Shut up, Sam," you find yourself saying, "just leave me alone. Can't I be quiet and try to enjoy my food without the interrogation? Jesus Christ." You bang your tray on the table, the cafeteria goes silent. "What?" you bark at them, and they go back to their pathetic lives.

"Quinn, wait — " Sam tries to say something comforting, but you stand.

The voices are already unbearable. You dump your lunch — tray and all — into the trash can and run towards the nearest bathroom, you throw yourself into the first stall. Two fingers down your throat —

I CAN'T PUKE, I CAN'T PUKE, WHY CAN'T I PUKE — and what do you do now because you ate fries at lunch, and you can already hear the voices, blocking out all other noise, and you can feel the additional pounds on your hips, and there is someone else inside the bathroom. "Damn," you mutter because that's the number one rule: always make sure that you are alone. IDIOT.

"Quinn?" the person asks, and you know who it is — Rachel Berry.

"Manhands," you kick open the door with a sneer. She looks at you for a second, and the only thing in your mind is SHE KNOWS, because she does — somehow, she does. You raise an eyebrow, daring her, challenging her — and yet, a part of you wants her to scream it to the school, to shut up the voices, (FAT, UGLY, SLUT, WHORE, BITCH) for good. "What are you doing here, freak? Perving on me, tranny?" but your eyes, they scream, HELP ME and maybe she hears.

"Quinn, are you okay?" she asks, and you realize, for the first time, that there is blood on the floor, a puddle that gets bigger with every passing moment. And in her hand is a razor. You're not the only one who's broken.

"I'm just sick," you say, your eyebrows asking for a challenge, PLEASE, PLEASE, HELP ME, SAVE ME — but she just looks away. "Freak," you mutter after her as she runs through the door, but part of you wishes that she'd stay.

PLEASE, I NEED HELP —

Her hand pauses on the handle. "Quinn —"

"Get out of here, Berry," you sneer because finally, the food is coming back up, and it has more to do with the blood on the floor, and Rachel, than your fingers.

She leaves.

/

The voices never stop.

Every time you take a breath, the voices urge you — no, they force you — to stay skinny. The whispers are ugly in your head and you're so horrible, why does anyone even like you. FAT —

"I am skinny," you lie to yourself. UGLY — "I am pretty." You always lie like this, they say you have to tell the truth, but you aren't pretty, you _aren't_, and the sooner they realize this, the sooner they will ditch you like last year's outfits. SLUT, WHORE, BITCH —

You stand on the scale, and are surprised that it doesn't break — FAT, UGLY, SLUT, WHORE, BITCH — but it reads 105, and that's not good enough for you — it's not, and the word fat is on your tongue, and maybe those diet pills that your mom has aren't a bad idea after all. She hardly uses them anymore, so she won't even notice — and it won't matter if she does, not really.

You take one, feel nothing. FAT, UGLY —

You pop another. SLUT, WHORE —

This must be what taking ecstasy feels like, you think as you take another, then another, then another, and then countless more, and pop them in your mouth. You feel invincible, like you could jump off the Empire State building and not break a bone, and you are weightless. BITCH —

The voices stop. In fact, it's almost like the whole world has gone silent and a bit fuzzy around the edges. You feel brave, daring. "I am invincible," you shout, you want to scream it from the rafters, but your legs feel heavy.

Your eyelids droop, "I — am — invinci — " The door opens, Santana, your mother, and, looking quite out of place in your pink room, Rachel burst in, screaming words that you have no care of to listen.

Your mother shouts something, but you can't hear because your ears are going fuzzy, and you want to sleep, and —

/

"She'll be okay, Miss Fabray — " There is a doctor standing right above you. You open your eyes a bit more, the lights above you are blinding, and they almost make you close your eyes. You're in a hospital, you realize, by the smell of hand-sanitizer. But _why_?

"Please, call me Miss McQueen, I'm no longer married to Russell Fabray," it's your mother, and she stands above you, looking pale and tense in the stark light. She looks like she hasn't slept in days. It's funny, you think, 'cause she never goes out without makeup and a well-crafted ensemble, and it's so absurd that you laugh. You like that, laughing, and you do it again.

"_Quinn_," your mother breathes, and the colour floods back into her face. "Oh my God, honey. I thought — I thought — if Santana and Rachel hadn't called me — " The words Santana and Rachel sound funny together, 'cause they kind of hate each other, but there they are, you notice, sitting together like the best of friends.

"Sannie and Rachie," you slur, grinning sloppily at them, "mommy, don — don't worry, I was invincible, you see," and you try to explain yourself, "at least the voices have stopped." And they have, finally, but your mother begins sobbing, and the doctor escorts her to the waiting room.

"What the fuck, Fabray?" Santana snaps at you the second the doctor and your mother disappear. "If Manhands — if Berry hadn't come to me, worried to fucking hell about you, and literally annoyed me into calling your mom and visiting you, and you were on the floor, oh my God, Quinn." There are tears shining on her face, and, whoa, you didn't know that she cared about you enough to cry — after all, Santana Lopez doesn't cry.

Rachel doesn't say anything, just puts an arm around Santana and squeezes.

The ringing in your ears stops. "But why, Manh — Berry? I've been a bitch to you, even today, and you saved my life," you hiccough.

"I didn't want you to _die_," Rachel says, twirling a strand of hair around her finger. You smile at her, and feel warm. "It's just — you scared me today, you know."

"I'm sorry," you say to both of them, "but the voices — _the voices_."

The doctor walks in with your mother, still crying, beside her. "Miss Fabray, you're awake," he says and you fight the urge to roll your eyes — oh, so _that's_ what it is when your eyes are open and you're conscious! — but he doesn't seem to notice. "You need help, Miss Fabray."

"Help with what?" you mumble but the voices, they're coming back. YOU ARE UGLY, YOU ARE WORTHLESS, TOO BAD BERRY SAVED YOUR MISERABLE LIFE — and, oh, you thought you were free, you thought you were free. "The voices," you whisper and everyone stops, "they're back."

Your mother sobs harder.

/

You feel fat, bloated. The damn doctors won't leave you alone long enough to do anything — even when you do go to the bathroom, there is a nurse with you, whispering things like, "How are you?" and "How much do you weigh?" But the words, those voices in your brain, FAT, UGLY, SLUT, WHORE, BITCH — still scream at you.

"You're so skinny," the nurses lie — but you're not, all you see is mountainous rolls of fat and crooked teeth and Lucy Caboosey, and you can't, _you can't_ deal with this.

Except Rachel visits you a lot, so you kind of can.

"Hi, Quinn," she smiles at you — treats you like normal. "How are you?" HOW CAN YOU EVEN BE NICE TO ME AFTER I'VE BEEN SUCH A MONSTER — you think, but you just lie through your teeth.

"Fine."

"No you're not," she argues, and you sag against her, "you're not. But that's okay. You'll get better."

And here, sitting with your head on her shoulder, you kind of believe her.

You don't hear the voices when she's with you.

/

The day you leave to Columbus, Ohio, is an overcast one.

The only people who come to see you off are Santana and Brittany, your eyes ask Santana WHERE'S RACHEL — but she shrugs and looks away. "_Please_, mom. I don't want them to think I'm insane — "

"But you need help, Quinnie, and your school needs to be involved," your mother says firmly. "So they understand." You want to curse, scream obscenities, but you're just so _tired_, and you give up.

"Bye, Quinn," Brittany says in that dreamy voice of hers, "I hope San and I visit you soon." You hug her, and she feels warm, solid, under your bony grasp.

"I swear to god, Q," Santana snarls, but there is another layer under the hostility — fear, "if you ever do that again, I _will_ go all Lima Heights Adjacent on you, and you know I will." She cares about you, you smile. "Bye, bitch. Britt and I'll visit you later, 'k?"

You offer both of them a fake smile, nod, "Please don't tell anyone."

"What about Trouty Mouth?" Santana asks you, her eyes like lasers pinpointing you.

You can't bear to think it — what Sam will say when he finds out, how he will react, and the look he'll give you, how tightly he'll hug you, so you answer, "Especially not him. Please." Your mother sits in the car, honking the horn. You hug them, look back for Rachel WHERE ARE YOU — you ask the world, begging for her. Nothing.

You get in the car and drive away.

/

"Welcome to Columbus, Ohio Psychiatric Hospital, how may I help you?" she smiling receptionist asks. You glare at her. YOU CAN'T HELP ME, you say, but you don't.

"Mom," you hiss, "I don't need help — I'm fine." FAT, UGLY, SLUT, WHORE, BITCH —

She doesn't believe your lie. "My daughter is Quinn Fabray."

The receptionist smiles — can she do anything else _but_ smile? — typing at her keyboard. "Ahh, I see; the referral of Doctor Powell's." A nurse leads you by the arm into a white hallway — enclosing you, trapping you — and smiles at you.

"You'll be living here for a few weeks, honey," she smiles at you with her garish pink lipstick. "Just press this button any time you need a nurse, okay? Don't worry — we'll help you."

"But I don't want help — _I don't need help_ — I need a scale," you yell, and the nurse smiles indulgently and wanders off, probably to go torture some more people. You feel your normally hard belly — now there is only fat.

YOU ARE UGLY — your mother walks in, wiping her eyes delicately. "Quinnie, listen, this is for your own good, okay? I love you." You glare at her.

YOU ARE STUPID — "Thanks for nothing," slips from your lips and she steps back, hurt. "Bye, mom." FAT, UGLY, SLUT, WHORE, BITCH —

_Maybe_, you concede_, you do need help._

/

The next time they allow guests, Rachel visits you, dressed in her long sleeved dresses and fake show smile. "Rachel," you breathe and it's the first good thing that's happened here, "why didn't you see me off?" She sighs, guilty.

"I had a show, sorry."

"It's okay," you find yourself saying because _she's here now_ and that's all that matters. She looks pretty, by Rachel standards, in a long-sleeved, pale blue dress, and while to most, it was a normal ensemble, you know it hides the cuts on her wrists and arms. "It's okay."

She sits down, facing you. You notice how pretty she is — not the glamorous kind, like Santana, but a wholesome, more natural kind, and how could you not have noticed how shiny her hair was before, or how bright her eyes were? _But maybe you did_, a voice inside you ponders,_ that's why you pushed her so hard_.

"How's school?" you ask her, because you are quite curious and Brittany and Santana obviously haven't had time to visit yet.

"Everyone was so worried about the disappearance of the mysterious Quinn Fabray," Rachel says, smiling, and you like it — you like the way she says your name, like it's a melody. "Santana, obviously, was the first choice for interrogation, but well, you know how intimidating she can be" — you nod, grinning — "and then people went to Sam, but he doesn't know anything."

"How is Sam?" you ask, just for the sake of asking, because, really, you haven't thought about Sam at all, despite the fact that he's left 43 voicemail messages on your phone. Rachel frowns.

"Hurt, angry, annoyed. He thinks you're avoiding him," she says.

"I think I am, too," you admit to her and she smiles at you.

"Why? I thought Ken and Barbie were paradise in heaven," Rachel says, and you stare at her — the way she says it is strange, almost spiteful.

"That may be the problem," you admit sheepishly, "dating Sam is just so _ordinary_. But why do you care, anyway?" But she doesn't say anything, and you two just sit in silence for a while.

"You should at least call him," Rachel points out. You don't answer.

"You know," you say eventually, "when you're here; you make the voices to go away." Rachel smiles at you, and everything is right —

Her lips, they taste like strawberries. Her lips taste like young love. The voices try to say something, but you just kiss her harder.

For once, the voices have no control over you.

/

The doctors pump you full of liquids and literally shove food down your throat.

Every minute, the voices get louder, YOU ARE FAT, YOU ARE WORTHLESS — and only Rachel can stop them with her moon-bright eyes, and dapper smile that lights up the room. You know you're gaining weight, you can literally feel the pounds accumulating, "Can I have a scale?" you ask, but they do not comply.

"It may trigger you," they say. "You're improving. You're healthy. That's all you need to know."

On the third weekend you're in this hellhole, Santana and Brittany drop by. "Hey, Q," Santana says with a smirk. "How are you here in Crazy town?"

"Shut up, S," you grumble, but all three of you smile because this is real, and this is good, and this is _familiar_. Then the smile slips off Santana's face and you know you're going to hear some bad news.

"Q, sorry, but Principal Figgins told everyone that you're in here." And you feel your world wasting around the edges, you can barely make out Santana's face and you're falling, and the voices are screaming, YOU ARE WORTHLESS, EVEN RACHEL WON'T WANT YOU —

There's a knock at the door. "Quinn?" It's Sam. You're not ready for this, you're not ready for this, you're not ready, _you'renotready_ —

You sigh, opening the door. He engulfs you in a hug that seems to tight. "Quinn. Oh, _Quinn_." And that's why you didn't want to tell him — because he'd overreact. He kisses you, but you pull away, because _Rachel_, and —

"What do you want, Sam?" your voice comes out flat, impatient.

"I — I came to visit you, Figgins told us what happened, and I thought — "

"You thought what?" you snarl because he doesn't deserve this, but you don't want him here. "You thought that it would be nice to visit me — even though I purposely didn't tell you I was coming for a reason?" He flinches back, hurt, while Santana whistles. "I'm sorry, Sam. You're a good guy, but — "

"Quinn, I love you," he says, looking at you with those eyes that could get you to agree to anything, but then you remember Rachel's eyes, and they're even more captivating.

"Sam, I'm not interested anymore. You're a great guy who deserves a girlfriend who can love you, and I'm not her." He gives you one last long, searching look.

"Okay, good bye, Quinn Fabray," and with that, he's gone.

Santana and Brittany hug you, but the only thing you say is — "Where's Rachel?" because the voices are returning, and there's nothing you can do.

"You love her," Santana states, and it's not a question, and you don't deny it. After all, you see the way she looks at Brittany, and she knows how you feel.

"I do," you confirm, and it feels glorious, saying that in the open air, letting the words spill into the room, into the world.

"Since when?" Santana asks you.

"She always has," Brittany says matter-of-factly, "that's why she worked so hard to tear her down, because it was easier to hate Rachel."

Maybe Brittany isn't as dumb as everyone says she is, you realize.

FAT, UGLY — "Shut up!" you yell and the two girls stare at you. "I was telling the voices to shut up. I am not fat, nor am I ugly."

For the first time, you feel hope.

/

Rachel comes with you and your mother when you are finally discharged from the hospital, and the two of you sit in the back and secretly hold hands for the two and a half hour drive back home. You like it, the feeling of her hands and yours, together.

When you get home — and you never knew you'd be this excited to go back home, you and Rachel go into your room, and she holds you, and everything is _right_.

"Want me to walk into school with you tomorrow?" she asks, tracing patterns onto your ivory skin, and you smile at her.

"Please do."

"You can do it, you know, you're invincible," she smiles at you, and you believe everything she says.

"But I'm not — I'm _not_," you say truthfully. "I'm broken."

"I'm not, either," she says, lifting for the first time, the hem of a sleeve to show her scars. "Let's be broken together — promise?"

You say nothing, just trace her scares — both the scabbed over old ones, and the fresh new ones, and whisper, "Promise you won't hurt yourself if I don't hurt myself?"

"Promise," she whispers.

You kiss every scar on her wrist, and she lets you be the strong one, for once. But you have to know, "Did I do this?" you ask, eyes begging her to tell you the truth.

"No," she says, and you believe her. Her tears fall onto the carpet, making dark spots, and you say nothing.

/

As promised, she walks into school with you — and Santana and Brittany, as extra protection — but people are staring and they're whispering, and YOU ARE WORTHLESS — but then her hand finds yours and squeezes for just a second, and _you can do_ _this_.

"I heard she OD'ed on drugs, too," a girl whispers, casting you a disgusted look.

"God — I always wondered why she was so thin," another girl, this time a Cheerio — one of the girls you used to command — mutters.

FAT, UGLY, SLUT, WHORE, BITCH — the teachers give you sad, pitying looks, wondering where the perfect Lucy Quinn Fabray went wrong, and everyone is staring. You lock eyes with Sam and he mouths, _Good luck, Quinn,_ and you smile because he really was a great guy — and he'll make some girl really happy. YOU ARE HORRIBLE, YOU ARE WORTHLESS, WHY DO YOU EVEN WAKE UP IN THE MORNING —

"Fuck off, losers," says Santana and you've never loved the girl more. She gives everyone a _well, what the fuck are you still doing here_ look, and they scatter the hallways.

"Thank you," you say, smiling.

She grins nonchalantly, "Don't say I never did anything for you, Q."

"Good luck, Quinn," Brittany gives you one more hug and flounces off with Santana, linking their pinkies together.

"They're so obviously in love," Rachel says, and you have to agree with her.

"I know," you nod, a bit sadly. "I wish — " you let the sentence hang between yourselves.

"Me too," she smiles. "I'm with you, you know? Every step of the way."

And she is, _she is_.

/

You two go stargazing one night, long after the rumours of your various escapades have faded to a dull murmur. You still haven't told your mother about you and Rachel, but she already seems to know, and her dads have known for a while, actually. "Look," Rachel says, and her hands grab yours, "a shooting star."

"Make a wish," you whisper, taking her tanned arm in yours. The scars, even the newest of them, have started to fade, as she promised you, she doesn't cut herself any more.

"Why? I already have everything I need," she whispers, and her hand is in your blonde hair, tangling in it, another snaking behind this pale yellow dress — proudly size two — and her lips are on yours, and stars be damned, because it's _Rachel_, and she's been with you every step of the way, and there's nothing like a slow caress under the stars.

"Quinn?"

"Hmm?"

"I love you."

The voices are getting dimmer, maybe you aren't worthless; maybe you are somebody. FAT, UGLY, SLUT, WHORE, BITCH. "The voices," you whisper, because you can't deal with them now — or ever again.

"What do they say?" she asks you, lips ghosting over your throat.

You hesitate, saying it aloud makes it real, but this is _Rachel_. "Fat, ugly, slut, whore, bitch. That I'm worthless," you whisper.

"Thin, beautiful, pure, perfect, kind," she counters each of the negatives with a positive, "you are worth _everything_. Quinn Fabray, don't ever call yourself worthless."

You open your mouth to argue, but she jumps you, and you both fall on the grass, and her lips are on yours, more urgent than before, and there is no time for insecurities, so you just whisper, "I love you," and you've never meant anything more in your life.

/

**fin**

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	2. II: RACHEL

**author's note:** So, due to popular demand, I turned Amaranthine into a two shot. This one follows Rachel, and her decisions to cut and basically the storyline of amaranthine but from Rachel's POV, with some Hummelberry, Tinchel and Pezberry friendship, of course! This is for the flawless Elsie _(keep my issues drawn)_ because I honestly don't know who I'd be without you and you're amazing and I love you, okay? Happy anniversary and enjoy your blue shirt! ;)

I got the inspiration from Laurie Halse Anderson's _Wintergirls_ — which is so dark and heart-breaking and amazing, by the way — but they aren't really connected.

**warning**: references to an eating disorder (bulimia) and cutting. Very dark and there may be some possible triggers.

**disclaimer**: Ryan Murphy and Fox own glee, therefore, I do not; the quote from the beginning is from the book Handle With Care by the amazing Jodi Picoult!

Enjoy. :)

* * *

/

**Amaranthine  
PART II**  
quinn/rachel

/

_"people always want to know what it feels like, so i'll tell you: there's a sting when you first slice, and then your heart speeds up when you see the blood, because you know you've done something you shouldn't have, and yet you've gotten away with it. then you sort of go into a trance, because it's truly dazzling — that bright red line, like a highway route on a map that you want to follow to see where it leads. and — god — the sweet release, that's the best way i can describe it, kind of like a balloon that's tied to a little kid's hand, which somehow breaks free and floats into the sky. you just know that balloon is thinking, ha, i don't belong to you after all; and at the same time, do they have any idea how beautiful the view is from up here? and then the balloon remembers, after the fact, that it has a wicked fear of heights._

_when reality kicks in, you grab some toilet paper or a paper towel (better than a washcloth, because the stains don't ever come out 100 percent) and you press hard against the cut. you can feel your embarrassment; it's a backbeat underneath your pulse. whatever relief there was a minute ago congeals, like cold gravy, into a fist in the pit of your stomach. you literally make yourself sick, because you promised yourself last time would be the last time, and once again, you've let yourself down. so you hide the evidence of your weakness under layers of clothes long enough to cover the cuts, even if it's summertime and no one is wearing jeans or long sleeves. you throw the bloody tissues into the toilet and watch the water go pink before you flush them into oblivion, and you wish it were really that easy."_

— **handle with care **/ jodi picoult

/

"You can do it, you know, you're invincible."

"But I'm not — I'm not, I'm broken."

"I'm not, either, let's be broken together — promise?"

/

Quinn Fabray isn't as perfect as she seems on the outside — the ice queen, the bitchy head cheerleader façade — is just that, an act. Inside she's as broken as the rest of you.

You've gotten glimpses of the broken Quinn before, but the first time that you truly realize it is when you're standing together, your body pressed to hers, with a million shining stars above.

She isn't perfect — far from it, in fact.

But you can forgive those flaws because when you love someone, it doesn't matter how sane — or insane — she is. And that's what this is, isn't it? Love.

You love her and you're not ashamed to admit it — not to yourself, not to the world. "I love you," you say and for a second, that temptation to cut is back — what if she doesn't return your feelings? — but she will know if you cut, and you can't stand her disappointment, you can't —

"I love you," she says and she's never sounded lighter. There is something flickering in her eyes, maybe doubt, but it's not and you don't think, you just _are_ and you jump her and together you roll down the hill, the cold grass chilling your legs but you've never felt warmer —

/

You love the feeling of the blade, the cold, hard, sharp metal, as it slices across the thin layers of your skin, leaving a trail of red beads in its wake. You know it's wrong — you just know that girls like you shouldn't be mutilating your skin — but you don't want to stop . . . you _can't_ stop.

It's your one salvation after all the bullshit that high school throws at you. For every time that Santana Lopez calls you a name, or Finn Hudson looks past you in the hallways — when he pretends that you're nothing more than a loser, seemingly forgetting the weeks you two spent on the beach together, kissing underneath the stars — every time that you glance at Quinn Fabray, remembering your crush on her . . . if only she knew. If only she knew.

There's a line on your skin for every insult, every remark, every slushie.

And to be quite honest, you don't want to stop —

/

Your routine is quite monotonous — every morning you wake up and plaster a fake smile on your face, maybe it will be better today, maybe the bullying will stop, and maybe Quinn will smile at you —

Every day, without question, you keep up this cheerful façade of happiness which lasts until the first slushy is thrown at you.

Every day you come home from school with a slushy-stained bra and blue syrup in your hair, every day you get into the shower and hope it gets better.

It doesn't.

/

You don't know exactly when you started cutting — perhaps it was after you found out that Jesse St. James, your first real boyfriend (read: the first guy who wasn't afraid to walk down the halls with you and hold your hand in public) was using you . . . using you so that his glee club could be on top.

He egged you in the parking lot and you came to school the next day smelling like chicken fetuses — in your humble option — and with three horizontal, thin red slices on your arms.

That was when you started wearing long-sleeved shirts.

/

You remember when being a dreamer wasn't a chore. When your lust for the camera and he lights and stardom and Broadway was real. When you wanted to be some future girl's — a girl like you; bullied and slightly broken — Barbra Streisand; an inspiration. You give a small half-smile as you lightly finger a photograph of you and your fathers dating back to the Christmas of freshman year.

There are lights and holiday decorations and the hustle and bustle of Times Square in the background and the younger you is smiling . . . you were happy because this was what you wanted — it was your future —

The picture used to be on your nightstand as something to make you push harder, something to let you never stop giving up hope that you'd get out of this cow town, someday. Now it just mocks you — it reminds you of when you were unsullied.

Like the cuts on your wrists, it is tainted.

But it doesn't have to be, right? You still have potential, don't you? After all, you're Rachel Barbra Berry and you don't give up hope, do you?

You say the mantra that you've been saying ever since you could talk . . . the mantra that would be your tagline for books and movies and plays written in your name, "I am a star," you say. The words, once so full of steely determination and promise, sound stale and overused to the new you. You try again. "I am a star." The words sound off. Like they know that those are just empty words, like they know that you don't believe in them anymore —

You throw the picture into the trash.

Three new scratches join the ones on your left wrist, filling up the already scant space of clean skin left. Soon, you'll have to find another place to cut — or just give up cutting entirely, but that thought makes your hands shake and you grip the mirror with your bloodstained hands and try to breathe.

You can't stop. You just can't.

/

"Morning, dad, morning, daddy," you say, kissing both your parents on each cheek as you grab a bagel from the bag on the counter.

"Good morning, princess," your daddy says, kissing you back on the cheek. He smells nice, clean. He gives you an easy smile and you briefly wonder how he'd react if he found out what a monster you are —

"How's my little star?" your dad says and you plaster a smile on your face — quite convincing, actually, you're used to faking — but your heart starts pumping faster than ever because they don't know that you're giving up on your dreams.

"I'm fine, dad," you say. Luckily, they don't question you anymore and you're free to go. They're good parents, you muse, but they're just a little bit too absorbed in what something looks like . . . you look like a happy, normal teenager and they're too busy to pry the layers and realize that you're not — you're not.

You stop by their room and grab a fresh blade before going to school.

/

You hate school with a passion.

It's not that you hate the school-ish parts of it — the classrooms and the learning — but the students and teachers . . . well, they leave something to be desired, to say the least. You'd think they were in the eighteenth century instead of the twenty-first, really, with their views on homosexuality and people being different.

And you, Rachel Berry, are the epitome of diversity. You don't wear they're brands like Hollister and Aeropostale and Abercrombie & Fitch; you don't play a sport; and most of all, and maybe this is the biggest thing that separates you and your peers, you're planning on leaving Lima, Ohio, and never looking back.

It's almost a crime in this down where some families have lived in the same ancestral home for generations, to think of leaving them. And so they torment you.

"Hey, Berry," it's Dave Karofsky . . . also known as one of your biggest persecutors. He has a smile on his face, like he is the cleverest being on the planet, "You look hot — and I don't mean that as a compliment. Let me cool you off!" and he throws the slushy that was in the hand behind his back and you close your eyes because despite being slushied hundreds of times, the familiar sting and cold as the goop drips down your shirt, never gets old.

"Diva," you here and turn around to see your friends — or, at least, your fellow gleeks — Kurt and Tina, frowns covering both their faces. "Come on and let's get you cleaned up — do you have any spare clothes?"

"Yes — they're in my locker," you find yourself saying. Tina runs to grab them and Kurt pulls you by the shoulders into the nearest girl's washroom. There will be more cuts on your wrist tonight, you know that for sure.

"Let me guess," Kurt says, a frown ghosting over his porcelain features. "Karofsky?"

You find yourself nodding, the tears that were threatening to spill in the hallway falling freely now, You don't know why you're crying — after all, slushies and torment have been as much of a part of your high school career as learning — but this time it feels . . . different —

"It's okay, Diva," Kurt soothes, "It's okay. I'd hug you, but you're kind of dripping blue onto the new tiles . . . and this jacket is Marc Jacobs. Vintage."

You laugh because that comment is so _Kurt_ and he grins back at you. Maybe you don't have to cut every time you hurt — maybe you'll be alright, maybe —

Tina comes into the bathroom with two sets of clothing and red, sticky hair. "He came for seconds."

You need to cut now, the blades are practically singing to you . . . you can't, you can't wait until the end of the school day.

/

You're fifteen minutes late to class and by this time, everyone's heard about Karofsky slushying you and you know that there will be copycat slushiers — there always are. That sly, secretive smirk that tugs on the lips of almost everyone in this stupid cow town is there, like there's an inside joke that you're not a part of and is the whole world against you?

You spot a tall boy with familiar brown hair in front of you — the sight, once so comforting, makes your guts writhe like someone is sticking a knife through it. "Finn — _Finn_."

He turns around, making sure to roll his eyes at his friends in a gesture that says that he would much rather be talking to anyone else. "What, Rachel?"

"You were there," you blush — your tone was supposed to be angry and annoyed, but you end up just sounding annoyed and hurt. "Why didn't you stop him?" His Neanderthal friends laugh, actually, so does the majority of the class.

"Why would I help you, Rachel?" he says. You can't help the tear that pools at the corner of your eyes at that — after the last summer, you'd thought you and Finn Hudson had become friends, if not more. . . memories of your lazy summer together drifted through your mind . . . but when school started, he'd gone back to his world of popularity — like the summer had meant nothing, absolutely nothing, to him. The most he had done was look uncomfortable while his friends taunted you. "I don't even know you."

You face hardens — another cut on your skin for this — "And I guess I don't know you, either, Finn Hudson." You're not shedding another tear for this boy — you refuse to.

/

The second the lunch bell rings, you run to the bathroom, armed with a razor and your memories. Kurt and Tina probably won't miss you; they'll think you're practicing in the choir room, and just to be sure, you lock the stall door, checking to see if the bathroom has any other occupants.

A tear falls from your eyes, making a soft rivulet down your cheeks and dripping down your chin. And then another. And another and soon you're crying. You cry because you were stupid enough to think that Finn Hudson, _the_ Finn Hudson, would choose you over popularity; you cry because people like Dave Karofsky feel threatened and scared that you have dreams . . . and he wants to stop the fighting spirit in you — no one knows that it's already broken. You cry and cry until your waterproof mascara runs and you look disgusting but it doesn't make you feel better — it really doesn't.

That's why you cut.

Slowly, gently, as through caressing the skin of a lover, you lift the blade and place it on your skin, looking for a good spot to write out your frustrations — with yourself, with this town, with this school — out. It's easy to marvel at how invincible humans think they are, and yet a small metal blade can slice the very thing that holds them together.

You wonder what would happen if you merely pressed farther, if you dug the blade deep enough to sever a vein. The thought is very tempting, really, but you don't — suicide has never been an option for you, not really. You do cut a little more intricately than usual, though; straight lines just don't seem to be enough to cover up the pain you feel right now — you make stars and suns and swirls into your skin and you hardly feel a thing until you hear someone stumble into the bathroom and you stop —

The familiar stinging starts again, and you look down to see a large amount of blood dripping from your wrist; you cut more than what you meant to. You drop the blade, disgusted with yourself.

You hear someone mutter, "Damn," and you know that voice. It's the same voice that's been haunting both your dreams and nightmares for years — Quinn Fabray.

You've always been enthralled by her, really; her Ice Queen, Head Bitch In Charge, take no prisoners attitude. She seems different from the other kids who make your life hell. "Quinn?" the word slips from your lips.

You like the way her name tastes on your lips: like lazy summer days and strawberries and forever and you wonder if her name sounds like that to her, too.

"Manhands," she hisses and you can practically hear the sneer in her voice as she kicks open the door — but there's something under that — fear. You step out, momentarily forgetting the copious amount of blood on your arm and the razor in your hand you're not thinking about that right now because she's broken, too — she's broken just like you are, really.

Lucy Quinn Fabray isn't perfect after all, and it kind of scares you because if she isn't perfect — then who is? There is a moment when pure, unadulterated fear flashes across her face because she knows that you know — and then it is gone. She raises an eyebrow, daring you to say it aloud but you don't; saying it aloud would make it real. "What are you doing here, freak? Perving on me, tranny?" but there is no malice in her voice nor is there hatred in her eyes — they seem to be screaming for help and you want to answer, you want to answer more than anything.

"Quinn, are you okay?" you ask — this question doesn't need an answer, you know what she was doing in there. Your blood makes a steady drip as it splashes onto the ground, making a bigger puddle with every passing second. Her eye widen as she realizes that you, too, are shattered.

"I'm just sick," the lie tumbles from her lips easily; she's done this too many times and the thought seizes you with terror. Her eyebrows rise, asking for a challenge, but underneath that, they're screaming for help.

But how can you help someone when you're even more broken than she is? You head towards the door.

"Freak," she mumbles towards your back and you turn.

"Quinn — " you start but to be honest, you have no idea how to finish this sentence.

"Get out of here, Berry," she says but her voice has no malice in it; it's just sad and lonely. You listen.

/

For the rest of the afternoon, your mind is filled with the look on her face after she realized that you were in the bathroom — the look before the usual one she gives you. Even her insults didn't seem to hold that much weight and that's quite scary.

Your teachers catch you daydreaming in class many times and each time, they chide you to pay attention but you can't — you realize that under the anger and fear in her voice, there is something else . . . desperation.

You know you have to do something — anything. And you know just who do talk to.

After school, just after the final bell has rung, Santana finally shows up at her locker, laughing at a text that Brittany has sent her. "Santana," you say and she jumps back, startled. Her face morphs into her usual annoyed expression that she wears whenever she sees you.

"What the fuck, Yentl?" she snaps. "I thought I made it clear — I don't want to see your freakishly short persona anywhere near me — "

"_Santana_," you say, stressing her name. It's tempting to walk away, to just walk out the doors and pretend it never happened, but you remember Quinn and you can't — you can't. "Quinn."

"What, are we naming names now?" She laughs harshly. "Okay — Brittany. Puck. Now can you get the fuck out of my way?" she slams her locker shut and pushes past you on her way to the gym; she can't be late for Cheerio practice.

"_SANTANA, STOP_!" you yell and she listens because this is the first time she's ever raised her voice at her. "_JUST STOP WITH THE INSULTS FOR ONE SECOND AND LISTEN TO ME — QUINN IS IN DANGER_."

She drops her bag.

/

The two of you tumble into her car, a red Prius — yeah right Santana's from Lima Heights, she's freaking loaded — and she starts it before your door is even fully closed. "I swear to God or Tom Cruise or whatever, if this is just another one of your diva stunts . . . you will get no less than ten slushies a day for the next two years of your life." But her voice trembles at the end and her hands are white and shaking on the steering wheel and you know that she believes you.

You call Judy and utter three words, "Quinn may OD." She gasps and goes silent and tells you that she's on her way.

Judy meets up with the two of you just was you pull into the driveway of the Fabray house, praying that you're wrong but knowing that you're right . . . Santana grabs the key under the doormat and literally flings the door open and you're running faster than you ever have in your life and —

You break down the door just in time to see Quinn on the ground, eyes red, body pale, blonde hair fanned behind her head like a golden halo. Judy yells at you to call the police and you do, stumbling over the words and bursting into tears and muttering —

Judy starts to shake Quinn and Santana is crying and you are too —

"I — am — invinci — " she begins but then her head drops and she stops moving and she's too pale —

/

The three minutes that the ambulance takes to arrive seems to be forever, a thousand eternities and infinities all stitched up together. When they finally do arrive, you cry even more.

Judy rides with the ambulance and Quinn, leaving you and Santana to take the Prius. Santana sits in the driver's seat but there are tears running down her cheeks and she keeps mumbling, "This morning, I saw her — I could have done something . . . " so you offer to take the wheel. She mumbles that if there's a single scratch on it, there will be hell to pay but she gives you a watery smile and you think that it only took Quinn nearly dying to make you friends with Santana Lopez.

Miraculously, you make it to the hospital with no scratches or speeding tickets and you tumble in, "We're looking for Quinn Fabray," Santana says. The nurse finally allows you in after Judy comes and personally gets you.

"She still hasn't woken up yet," Judy says, running her hand through her blonde hair, so much like Quinn's. "It's my fault — my fault."

/

You spend hours there, only pausing to call your dads and Tina and Kurt to tell them that the movie date is off.

You stay there all evening and you're finally allowed in the waiting room. You sit with Santana, your hand grabbing hers — you say that you need the support, but really, it's for her and she gives you a grateful smile. The doctor is briefing Judy on Quinn and you're not really listening until you hear a familiar voice begin to laugh. You have never heard such a beautiful sound — even Barbra's performance of _Don't Rain On My Parade_ will be nothing, absolutely nothing, compared to this.

"Quinn," Judy breathes and you grab Santana's hand harder. . "Oh my God, honey. I thought — I thought — if Santana and Rachel hadn't called me — " Quinn's eyes widen at the mention of your names and her hazel eyes find yours. You feel a jolt of electricity.

Her eyes are different, though. Dilated. "Sannie and Rachie," she gives you a sloppy grin, "mommy, don — don't worry, I was invincible, you see. At least the voices have stopped." Judy starts to cry at that, and the doctor escorts her away.

"What the fuck, Fabray?" Santana snaps the second the doctor and your mother disappear. "If Manhands — if Berry hadn't come to me, worried to fucking hell about you, and literally annoyed me into calling your mom and visiting you — and you were on the floor, oh my God, _Quinn_." Santana Lopez is crying. You put an arm around her.

"But why, Manh — Berry? I've been a bitch to you, even today, and you saved my life," she says, sounding confused.

You exhale. "I didn't want you to die, it's just — you scared me today, you know." She smiles at you and your heart starts pumping.

"I'm sorry," she says, "but the voices — the voices." She truly sounds mad — insane, when she looks around, eyes bright.

The doctor walks in with Judy. "Miss Fabray, you're awake," he says. "You need help, Miss Fabray."

"Help with what?" Quinn asks, her voice quiet. "The voices, they're back."

Judy cries.

/

You start visiting Quinn a lot, mostly after school and in the evening, and every day she lights up like a Christmas tree whenever she sees you. You treat her normally, because you know what it's like to be made to feel like a freak and she smiles at you and it's almost like your heart has just learned to start beating.

"Hey, Quinn," you say every time you visit her. "Are you okay?"

She offers a fake smile. "I'm fine."

"No you're not," you argue and she falls into your arms. She feels right there and you never want her to move, "you're not. But that's okay. You'll get better."

/

The day that she leaves for Columbus is the day you have a dance show. You never been less enthusiastic about dance because the only thing on your mind is Quinn and maybe you're falling in love with her, what a funny thought.

You want to text her, but you don't know how.

Quinn, I'm sorry I couldn't come. — R*

Quinn, I think I love you. — Rach*

You don't send either of them.

You cut three lines into your wrist that night.

/

After that, school is just a front. No one slushies you anymore, thanks to Santana, but your mind is focusing on _Quinn, Quinn, Quinn_, and you corner Santana in the washroom one day to ask how she is.

"San," you hiss when you hear her voice outside the bathroom. "_San!_"

Luckily, she hears you and, after making an excuse to her popular friends — after all, she can't be caught talking to the school pariah — she meets you in the washroom, Cheerio skirt swishing around her hips.

"What?" she hisses, her voice right next to your ear.

"Quinn — is she okay?" you ask. She stares at you for a moment, her chocolate brown eyes narrowing.

"You love her." Not a question.

"I — I think so," you say, your face turning red and you look down because those voice — the ones that sounded a lot like your tormentors are saying _what if you aren't enough?_

"She's fine," Santana stares at you for another moment. "She was really upset when you missed her leaving, though." A happy bubble rises inside you because even if she doesn't love you back, she at least cares and that is everything. "Yeah, yeah, Berry, it's good news — don't shit your pants." But she's smiling and she gives you a one-armed hug before yelling, "And if you ever even look at me again, Manhands . . . " and dramatically storming out of the washroom. She gives you a run for your money.

You don't cut that night.

/

If there is one thing that's worse than the bullying, it's what they're saying about Quinn. You, Brittany, and Santana try to do damage control, but it's so hard, with the big mouths that these people in Ohio have.

Sam looks worried about Quinn, like any good boyfriend should, but the thing is, you're jealous, you're jealous that there is someone else who has Quinn's heart and it hurts — it hurts a lot.

"Santana," you hear from down the hallway, "do you know where Quinn is? I've texted her dozens of times, but she won't reply."

"Then he doesn't want to talk to you, Trouty Mouth," Santana hisses, "take a hint." She pushes past Sam who looks hurt and confused. You give him a sympathetic smile on your way out.

/

The rumour mill is churning.

"I heard that she got pregnant and skipped town."

"I heard that her dad came back and left with her."

"I heard that she went to military school."

You want to scream at all of them, tell them to leave, but you don't. Instead, every insult to Quinn adds another cut to your wrist.

/

"Stop cutting yourself, Berry," Santana tells you one day when your sleeves ride up a little and those ugly scars — the red new ones and the fading white ones — are visible to the world. You yank your sleeve back down but the damage is done. "Berry — Rachel," Santana tries again and her voice takes on a more gentle tone. "Stop hurting yourself, okay? What is with Faberry and the need to hurt themselves to get over pain!"

"It's not about pain," you hiss at her. "You don't know — "

"I don't know?" Santana repeats, eyebrows raised. "_I don't know_? You know what, Berry? I think you're a selfish bitch and if you really did love Q, you wouldn't hurt yourself just because of what some motherfuckers say about her! She wouldn't want that!"

She walks away from you and for the first time, you stare after her. She may have acted like she was angry, but under that layer was a hurt one — hurt that she wasn't enough.

But the thing is — you can't stop cutting; it's your only salvation in this bleak and miserable world.

(Well, except for something with blonde hair and green eyes and the name of Lucy Quinn Fabray.)

/

You visit her two weeks after she goes to the hospital. When you walk in the room, she lights up like the fourth of July but she really shouldn't because she's too good for a damaged person such as yourself. You smile at her, though, but it's fake and you can tell she knows. "Rachel," she breathes like you are her light — which you shouldn't be. "Why didn't you see me off?" Her tone is not accusing, just hurt.

"I had a show," you say. Of course, your mind had only been on Quinn that day and you guys had come in last because of that.

"It's okay," She smiles at you, nothing else matters. "It's okay."

You exhale and sit next to her, cheeks flaming. She's watching you like you're an Oscar nominated film and you're watching her back — her blonde hair is messy and her face is pale but she's still the Quinn you fell in love with.

You try not to get carried away.

"How's school?" she asks you.

"Everyone was so worried about the disappearance of the mysterious Quinn Fabray," you say, but you don't tell her the rumours — it might trigger her. "Santana, obviously, was the first choice for interrogation, but well, you know how intimidating she can be" — she nods, a smile making its way across her face and it's the most glorious thing you've ever seen — "and then people went to Sam, but he doesn't know anything." You try to keep your voice casual, but a note of jealousy plays at the end.

"How is Sam?" she doesn't sound very interested, but perhaps you're just looking into things. You don't dare hope —

"Hurt, angry, annoyed. He thinks you're avoiding him," you answer her. Now there is definitely a sour tone to your voice — you just hope that she doesn't notice.

"I think I am, too," she says and you can't help the smile that blossoms on your face at that.

"Why? I thought Ken and Barbie were paradise in heaven," you say, your voice returning to its jealous tone. You tell yourself to calm down, but you can't.

"That may be the problem," she says with a sigh, "dating Sam is just so ordinary. But why do you care, anyway?" But you don't answer — you can't tell her.

After a while, your concerned friend part starts to act up. After all, Sam is really a nice guy — and he loves Quinn like you do. "You should at least call him," you say because if the situation was reversed, you'd want to know.

She doesn't respond.

After a few minutes of silence, she says, "You know, when you're here; you make the voices to go away." You smile at her —

You don't even know which one of you starts leaning in first, all you know is that you're kissing Quinn Fabray and she's kissing you back and it seems that you're whole life you merely existed, but now — now you're _alive_.

You have a goofy smile on your face for the rest of the week.

/

"Berry, guess what?"

"What, Santana?"

"Ken and Barbie broke up!"

You try to contain yourself. Santana raises an eyebrow at your pseudo-casual face. "Why?"

"Because she didn't love him."

"Yeah, she loves you," Brittany says.

You had forgotten what it was like to be this happy.

"But just now, Berry, if you hurt my girl, Q, I will cut off Finnocence's man-boobs and stick them up your — "

"Okay, okay, I get it, Santana."

/

She makes you promise to stop cutting, and when you agree it's not just empty words.

How can you lie to Quinn?

/

She goes back to school, she faces hell.

You're by her side.

/

You lie together, bodies curled up on the grassy slope.

"And even if you aren't perfect," you whisper into the crook of her neck, "I wouldn't want you to be — I don't want a boring, run of the mill, cliché romance. I want passion. I want adventure. I want a racing heart and blood pumping through my veins. I want this — I want _you_, Quinn Fabray."

You kiss her again.

/

**the end**.

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please don't favourite or alert without leaving a review.

sorry for any sp&g mistakes in this - i'll properly edit it later. thankyou.


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